The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Heard you objected to the match. One of Peter’s cast offs, I understand. That bad, is she?” Jerrid Chatwyn passed the wine jug. “There’s cups somewhere, boy. Help yourself.”

  Nicholas did. “As it happens, I was mistaken.” He drained the first cup of wine and winced slightly. “I should never have believed Peter in the first place.”

  “Your dear brother, God rest his soul,” Jerrid shook his head, “never told the truth unless quite sure the truth would hurt someone more than the lie.”

  “Brothers don’t sit well together in this family. I shall make sure to have only one son.”

  “Drink up, Nick. Sobriety don’t sit well with this family either.”

  The warmth of fire and wine were easing the growing pain in his back. Nicholas sprawled, and drank. “No shortage of the grape, then Uncle? The queen’s passing doesn’t seem to have affected you after all.”

  Jerrid snorted. “Illustrious circles, Nick, and all too rarefied for me. Hardly ever met the dear lady. A Neville, as you know. She’ll be much missed in the North.”

  “I met her highness on a few occasions and as queens go,” Nicholas said, sipping his wine, “I believe she was well loved both north and south.”

  “Oh indeed, north – south – east – west, m’boy. Better than the last one at any rate,” muttered Jerrid. “She and her family caused no end of trouble after the old king died. And before, come to think of it.”

  “You seem to think me an infant,” sighed Nicholas, putting his cup back on the table beside him. “I’m not so young I don’t remember what happened just two years ago. You may also remember I had a very small hand in quelling the situation on the king’s command. Not that he was king back then.”

  His uncle chuckled. “I’m not that pissed. I know some of what you’ve got up to over past years – what with your secret dealings, and all that time spent with the little Princess Cecily – and no doubt a good deal more you’ve never told me too. You’ve never told your father any of it, have you? Not that I blame you for that. My fool of a brother could never keep his mouth shut any more than your brother could.”

  “Enough,” sighed Nicholas. “I tell my family as little as possible since I trust none of them. And now, since you serve a thoroughly inferior Claret, I can only believe you’re as paupered as you say you are. Don’t you cadge off your dear brother anymore, sir? Or has he finally learned you never pay him back?”

  “I’ve never borrowed a penny from your father,” objected his uncle. “I beg yes, I ask politely. Finally I demand. But as for promising to pay back, I’d not be such a fool. Sadly, he’s stopped giving. If it weren’t that the king pays, I’d never have afforded to dress in quality black, or eat more than rye bread. You see before you a broken man, Nicholas. A blight on the house of Chatwyn, I’m afraid. So the next time his highness sends you off on some special business, you’d better take me with you. Then I’ll have the chance of more than an inferior Claret.”

  “The house of Chatwyn,” smiled his nephew, “is a blight in itself. My father’s a reprehensible old bore, you’re a penniless picklebrain, and both of you are permanently pissed. I’d take advantage and get pissed myself if this was a better brew, since less than half an hour back my dear father neither welcomed me nor offered me so much as a cup of ale.”

  Jerrid shook his head. “A sad business it is, being the younger son. You should know, my boy, since you expected to inherit nothing until last year. Better you than Peter, I say, but he was your father’s favourite of course. Now the queen. They say there were portents. I was asleep when it happened, but I hear there was an eclipse when she died.”

  “I saw it.”

  “People stared, ran out into the street to look, and now there’s reports of folk going blind. Medicks blame the astrologers.”

  “Her death was expected?”

  Jerrid spoke to the cup as he refilled it. “Was ill last year, but they thought it was influenza. Then coughing blood – well – who knows! The boy died last year of course – the little prince, poor child. The king went half mad at the time, they say, and her highness never the same since. So when she was ill many said it was a natural consequence. But she got better. Celebrated Christmas with a little extra bounce. Then February, she was sick again. The Council started planning to negotiate with Portugal. They knew, you see. You cough blood – you’re on the way out. Your father knew – parliament knew – I knew. No doubt the king knew. Perhaps the queen knew.”

  Nicholas shook his head. “Spare me a list.”

  “Well, your father got busy. Princess of Portugal – another in Spain. Both Lancastrian heritage. Diplomatic necessity, and should keep everyone happy. Even that other silly little princess, Edward’s eldest girl Elizabeth whose been asking for a husband for months. Well now she’s got her wish. King marries the Portuguese princess – his niece marries some Portuguese prince, keep it in the family. Something has to be set up, after all. A new king less than two years crowned – now no wife – and no legitimate children. Disaster. Parliament authorised the negotiations and your father’s on orders to sail. He’ll be off to Lisbon next month. Proud of himself he is, the bugger. No doubt Brampton will go with him, but I say Parliament is tipping the scales towards failure, choosing a Chatwyn. One word from my drunken sot of a brother, and any father would rush to lock his daughter away in a nunnery.”

  Nicholas sighed again, rubbing his knees. “A bit soon to foist another queen on the poor king, isn’t it? Queen Anne barely cold in her grave!”

  “It’ll take a year or more to finalise. Need to start early. Point is –” Jerrid said, draining his cup, “my dear brother was knocked off the Royal Council long since, yet still gets the honourable positions.”

  “He won’t like Portugal. Too hot. Though I believe the Jerez is the best quality, so that’ll console him. And if he travels with Brampton, he’d best mind his manners or he’ll be sent to his sickbed.”

  Sir Jerrid regarded his nephew. “Don’t look too well yourself, my boy, come to think of it,” he decided. “Been off your porridge, have you?”

  Mentioning the pestilence no longer seemed wise. “Winter weather,” Nicholas said with vague abandon. “But that’s not why I came, uncle. Nor to gossip about the problems of widowhood. I had quite another motive.”

  “Well, and here was me thinking you came for the pleasure of my company,” Jerrid said. “Not widowhood yourself already I trust, m’boy? Or is it the other direction, and an heir on the way to increase the ignominious Chatwyn bloodline?”

  A sudden smile, almost secretive, softened the glimmer of pain around his eyes. Nicholas said quietly, “Not yet. There’s been no – and an inappropriate beginning. But she’s a sweet little thing. I’ve grown rather fond of her.” He looked up again. “But that’s not the business I came to discuss either.”

  “So you’d better tell me the worst, my boy. Just so long as it’s not to beg or borrow, for I’ve not a farthing, nor half a saddle blanket to spare.”

  Nicholas pulled his chair a little closer to the fire. “I’m asking, uncle, but not for coin nor favours. Not even for myself, but for an investigation in the National interest, suggested by Sir James Tyrell. In fact, join me in what I’m planning, and I’ll do the paying.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Emeline said, “It’s eight days ago since I sent cousin Adrian a message. If he bothers to reply at all, then his letter should come tomorrow.” She waited for the tirade, muttered, “I’m afraid I sent one of the village carters, so Papa will be cross with me I suppose,” and stuck out her lower lip.

  “One day,” sighed the baroness, “that lip will fall right off, Emeline. I shall have it swept up and cast out for the pigs.”

  Avice nodded vigorously. “And if Papa wasn’t so mean, and bought us some of those gorgeous coloured rugs other people have on their floors nowadays, then at least your lip would have a softer landing.”

  “I sometimes wonder,” said Emeline, “why I bother
talking at all.”

  “And I wonder,” said her mother, “why I listen. This cousin Adrian you speak of is a virtual stranger to you. On arrival here you distinctly informed me he was a dull man of prim proprieties. And what is more, he is probably dying or dead of the pestilence by now. What conceivable message have you sent the poor man?”

  Emeline sat in a hurry. “I’m trying to find Nicholas. He said he’d write and tell me how he is and where he is. He hasn’t. He may be dead too.”

  “I thought you hated him.”

  “He’s my husband,” Emeline glared at her sister. “I’m doing my – duty. Even Papa can’t complain about that. Besides,” she admitted, very small voiced, “I don’t hate him anymore.” The glare turned moist. “Not even a little bit.”

  “You’re lucky, my dear,” sighed the baroness. “To be reconciled to an unwanted husband so soon after the wedding is – fortunate indeed.”

  “I am fortunate,” Emeline sniffed and hung her head. “He’s nicer than I expected. Perhaps what Peter told me was all a mistake. Brothers you know – like sisters – they tease – and say things they don’t mean. It seems Nicholas isn’t how Peter told me at all.”

  “Just don’t admit any of that to Papa,” Avice sniggered. “He’ll sympathise with duty, but not with actually caring –”

  She was interrupted. The door swung open with considerable force and Baron Wrotham stood in the shadowed doorway, staring down his nose as his eldest daughter. “Your principal duty, Emeline,” he informed her, “is, at present, to your parents who are housing you, and to whom you owe eternal honour as the good Lord informs us all.” The pale spring sunshine streaking through the small solar window did not reach the doorway and the baron remained framed in sombre disapproval. “And now,” he continued, “it has come to my attention that a written message has been dispatched at my expense, without it first being presented to me for approval.”

  The silence created its own shadows. Finally the baroness took a deep breath, and said, “I approved the message, James. You were not at home. I therefore took it upon myself to authorise the carter, his fee, and the delivery of a message I considered quite proper.”

  The baron narrowed his eyes. “Indeed, madam? And what, precisely, did this quite proper message contain?”

  He held up his hand as his daughter began to answer, and looked firmly at his wife. The baroness answered her husband’s gaze. “Addressed formally to Sir Adrian Frye, it was a request from Emeline regarding the whereabouts of young Nicholas. You are perfectly well aware, my lord, that Emma has heard nothing since her husband rode off alone to London, fearing for his life. Naturally she is worried.”

  “Approval during my absence might be acceptable, had I been informed immediately on returning to the house,” the baron informed her. “And this Adrian Frye is a creature of little consequence. Any such message should have been addressed to the earl. Only the father has the right to pronounce upon his son’s whereabouts.”

  “Adrian has some consequence,” dared Emeline. “He was knighted, after all.”

  “If you believe that your marital status gives you the right to contradict or argue with me,” the baron pronounced, “then you are, as usual, deluded, Emeline.” He paused, looking around the chamber with hauteur. “And should this young man make any attempt to reply, and to divert you from your womanly duties, you will ignore him. Am I understood?”

  Emma hunched, staring at her toes. “You wouldn’t want me to be impolite, Papa? And I must – Nicholas that is – and surely he is my first duty – and since he might be ill –”

  “His wellbeing is indeed your duty,” said the baron with withering patience. “I have lectured you sufficiently over the years, I believe, Emeline, and see no reason to repeat myself. But evidently you have insufficient intelligence, being female, to realise that any inquiry regarding the son should come through me, and be addressed to his father.”

  “Even from his wife? And even though his papa is at Westminster and may not even know that Nicholas was in contact – or that he might have fallen ill?”

  “If the Chatwyn heir is sufficiently remiss not to inform his father of such a momentous situation, then that is, no doubt, his own affair,” pronounced the baron. “How my daughter behaves is, on the other hand, at least while she resides in my home, most assuredly my affair. You will behave with propriety at all times, Emeline, and queries regarding the son, if they cannot be directed to your husband himself, must instead be directed to the earl.”

  “I suppose so, Papa.”

  “I intend travelling to London this week,” stated the baron, turning on his heel with a sweep of damask sleeves. “After the tragic death of her royal highness, may our great and merciful God take pity on her soul, I intend paying my respects at court before then continuing to the capital on business. I shall visit his lordship your father-in-law, and broach the subject of your husband’s predicament.”

  Emeline stared at her father’s diminishing shadow. She looked up at her mother. “Is he – right? I cannot believe, as his wife, it could possibly be improper to send a message to his cousin.” Her mother looked unexpectedly cowed, so Emeline sighed, and said, “It doesn’t matter anymore. But thank you for taking the blame about the message.”

  “Since your papa is, it appears, thoughtful enough to absent himself within the week,” decided the baroness quietly, “I do believe, should any reply from Sir Adrian be delivered during the next few days, we may consider ourselves free to deal with it as we decide best.”

  Avice grabbed her sister’s arm. “Thoughtful? It will be bliss. Five days or more to Westminster. Two days at court. Then three days at least in London. Five or six days to return, and it could be seven if he’s tired. Oh, wonderful! Papa will be gone nigh on three weeks. I think I shall tell Martha to brush out my best blue silk.”

  The upstairs solar was a drab little chamber though not bare of furniture. Although it lacked tapestries, arras or mural, there were two sturdy chairs, two solid stools, an uncushioned settle, and a window seat. The hearth was neither large nor adorned, but it gave sufficient space for a cheerfully crackling blaze. It was in the light of the fire that the baroness stood gazing at her two daughters as their faces began to thaw, to brighten, and in their smiles, to express a new dawning pleasure.

  The baroness raised one finger. “I know,” she said, “but it must not be said. Three weeks indeed? But what we feel, my dears, is one thing. As long as nothing disrespectful is spoken aloud, then I feel we are entitled to our silent, and shared, opinions.”

  The day following the baron’s departure, the expected reply came indeed. It was Sir Adrian who brought it himself. His approach, since three well dressed and unknown riders arrived in the village demanding a hot dinner at The Flag and Drum, was announced by a breathless youth who had run for a mile to warn his lord of strangers on the road.

  The baroness informed her elder daughter. “Good gracious,” said Emeline. “Thank the lord Papa is not at home,” and fluttered to the grand hall to await her cousin by marriage, carefully rearranging her hair pins as she ran down the stairs.

  Adrian had not brought his sister with him. “She is not in the best of humours,” he told his hostess, “and I instructed her to remain at home. Many of the servants expired during that unfortunate outbreak, and we are now sadly understaffed. So Sysabel and Aunt Elizabeth must busy themselves to reorganise the household, hardly an exhausting task.” He was stiff, a little uncomfortable, yet he had come, and remained polite. The baroness had already built up the fires in her husband’s absence, even though the April showers were light and the spring warmth shimmered over the Cotswolds. Immediately upon her guest’s arrival, she ordered larger and more elaborate meals from the kitchens, and lit more candles than she had ever risked before.

  Adrian sat in the blaze of candlelight, his dun brown hair turned gold and the square simplicity of his face etched into the interesting shadows of determination. “But I have heard nothing,�
� he admitted. “In all this time no message from Nicholas has been delivered. It seems he is as irresponsible as always. We have encountered our own considerable difficulties, being informed of devastation in Nottingham and the Great Mortality sweeping through the poorer quarters. It was some considerable time before I felt it safe to venture home, and on arrival discovered the household had been virtually abandoned.”

  “How, how – awful,” whispered Avice, gazing wide eyed at Adrian.

  “We were still in extreme discomfort,” Adrian continued, “when your letter arrived, my lady.” He bowed slightly to Emeline. “Appalled at what might have happened to Nicholas, I came at once.”

  “But,” sighed Emeline, “you’ve no idea how he is? Where he is?”

  “I shall attempt to discover both where, and in what condition,” Adrian nodded. “My cousin is most reprehensible not to have informed you before now.”

  “But if he’s dead –?”

  “He had his secretary with him? And if both are ill, there would be all the greater impetus to send a message.”

  There was the consolation of a hearty supper, good wine, and the unaccustomed pleasure of warmth and light, but Emeline drifted unsmiling, played with her food instead of eating it, and drank far too much.

  “I think,” said Avice later that evening, though no one had asked, “that Adrian is quite beautiful. And handsome. And so kind. He is an exceptional gentleman.”

  “You,” said Emeline, “are a silly little beetlebrain just like Sissy. I admit Adrian’s been exceedingly kind in coming all this way, but frankly he’s plain and square and not very clever. And I don’t like the way he picks at Nicholas.”

  “Well,” said her mother, “he seems very willing to try and find out what has happened. Though speaking of what has happened, I do find it a little odd that your Papa chooses to travel to London at such a time. April can be such a wet month. Of course it isn’t as if he was summoned to court, and her highness, poor lady, died over a month ago so paying his respects is now a little overdue. He has left on what he calls business rather often lately, yet I had not the slightest knowledge of there being any such thing previously.”